I was on the crosstown bus the other morning when a mother, attempting
to soothe the fidgety baby in her lap, started softly singing "The
Wheels on the Bus." That, of course, is the children's song in which
"the wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round," followed by other
verses in which, for example, "the wipers on the bus go swish, swish,
swish."

Hardly after the mother started into the second verse, a smartly dressed
elderly gentleman joined in to sing "the doors on the bus go open
and shut." Soon, a half-dozen of us in the back of the M86 were serenading
the now-delighted baby, our impromptu chorus reflecting the human panorama
of New York City in all its glorious diversity.

Before we could launch into the next stanza, a woman of a certain age
leaned toward the mother, holding up her hand to get our attention for
what she had to say. "Shut up!" she shrieked. "It's bad
enough I have to go to chemotherapy today. Do I have to listen to you
assholes, too?"

There was an awkward silence. Then the whole bus burst into applause.

-- Declan O'Toole

***

The Scene: West 14th Street on an unseasonably warm December day
The Players: A bunch of construction workers seated on the sidewalk
The Audience: Joseph Fields, a smartly dressed elderly gentleman

While waiting for the crosstown bus, Fields couldn't help noticing a
group of workmen eating their lunches on the stairs of a brownstone they
were rehabbing.

As various young women walked by, the men commented to each woman, and
to each other, their enthusiastic assessment of each woman's pulchritude.

Then a woman of a certain age came striding regally past the scruffy
band of workers. One of the men, noticed Fields, studied her carefully.

The worker opened his mouth as if to say something. But he didn't. Instead,
he picked his nose.

As soon as a well-endowed young woman walking her bichon frise came by
in the other direction, the men's chatter started up again.

***

Overheard by Joely Lindner New Year's Eve, as she stood packed in behind
police barriers with 750,000 other revelers in Times Square, all waiting
for the famous ball to drop:

Woman: "I have to pee."

Man: "Shit. Why couldn't you do it before we left?"

Woman: "I did!"

***

Dear Diary:

I'm an underemployed nightclub singer working in an unlicensed day-care
center -- a job that provides anecdotes I can send to Metropolitan Diary
in the hopes of seeing my name in print.

The other day I overheard two of my 4-year-old charges playing house.

Boy: Let's play Star Wars.

Girl: Yes.

Boy: I'm leaving you because my daddy's leaving my mommy.

Girl: (puzzled) What?

Boy: My daddy's sleeping with his Yoda teacher.

-- Oscar Goldstein

***

Don't all out-of-towners vividly remember the first time they saw New
York City? Albert Mossman, of Landover, Maryland, clearly remembers his
introduction to New York 25 years ago.

A sophomore in high school, Mossman traveled to the city as part of his
school's cross-country team, which was competing in the famed Palotti
Invitationals in Bronx's Van Cortlandt Park.

After finishing his race in the back of the pack, Mossman joined the
coach and the rest of the team on an informal tour of the city. First
stop: Washington Square.

Some students gaped at the street performers, such as the dancer whose
gender became clear only after he removed his tunic. Others ran off to
see whether they could buy beer without being carded.

Mossman, still in his running shorts, was standing around with three
chums when an imposing gentleman, smoking a marijuana cigarette, stretched
his arms about them and embraced all four simultaneously. "Which
one of you boys," asked the man, "is going to be my friend this
Saturday?"

Mossman hasn't returned to the city since.

***

In the fish line at Zabar's
I see my death.
"Seventy-five?" calls the man.
"Seventy-six?"
He glares.
"Seventy-six," I cry
And show my ticket:
Charon's fare.

The sharp knife
Cuts the last slices --
translucent, like my skin! --
From the Nova carcass.
And I,
A woman of a certain age
Ride the crosstown bus home
To die.

-- Juliet Shore

***

Dear Diary:

On the crosstown bus the other day, I was seated across from a woman
of a certain age and her companion, a smartly dressed elderly gentleman.

"You don't remember the opera guy? How can I be married for 44 years
to a man who asks me 'What guy singing opera?'"

"So sue me. I don't know who the hell you're talking about."

"Maybe I will. Anyway, for years there's been this guy singing opera
outside of Bloomingdale's. Rain or shine. All of a sudden I notice a few
weeks ago, he's not there anymore."

"So?"

"So last week I saw him again. He was out in front of Macy's."

"So, why'd he switch?"

"Well, I asked him that. He says -- "

By this point in the conversation, I noticed that the young man seated
next to me was scribbling fragments of the couple's conversation in a
notebook, while occasionally looking up to steal furtive glances at them.

"Excuse me," I asked the young man. "Are you writing this
down for Metropolitan Diary?"

"Yes," he admitted sheepishly.

"Hey! This guy's taking notes for Metropolitan Diary!" I yelled.
"Kill him!" In no time at all, fellow passengers and I were
pummeling the unfortunate fellow. A woman three-and-a-half years younger
than a certain age ripped the notebook from his hands. A smartly dressed
elderly gentleman, spittle running down his chin, punched the young man
in the face. A cherubic girl, no doubt on her way to one of the city's
tonier private schools, swung her rolling backpack down on the victim's
head. Our impromptu mob reflected the human panorama of New York City
in all its glorious diversity.

As the would-be correspondent collapsed into a bloody mess, a member
of our city's vibrant immigrant community gave a spirited call of "Back
door!" Once the green light went on, we half-dozen perpetrators piled
out of the bus. And as we made our getaway, I could hear the faint sound
of the passengers on that crosstown bus as they burst into applause.